Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            “Come, now.” I force myself to smile sweetly. “We both know you’re only mad because I’ve never been the Elsie you wanted.”

            “Is that so?” He looks like he was put on this stringed plane of reality as an omniscient entity. I’m angry, and he needs to stop talking like he understands.

            “It’s your own damn fault, Jack.”

            “Why?”

            “Because you”—I point my finger in his face—“don’t give me anything. Everyone else does. Something to latch on to, something I can use to be the person they want. But you’re not putting out signals. And that’s why you’re not getting the VIP treatment like everyone else. So quit whining, please.”

            “I see.” His hand, warm and calloused, closes around my wrist and pulls my index finger from his face down to his chest. He covers the back of my hand with his palm, and what the hell is he—?

            “Have you considered that maybe you’re already the way I want you to be? That maybe there are no signals because nothing needs to be changed?”

            I scoff. Here he is, the Jack I’ve come to know and loathe. “Right. Sure.”

            “Once again,” he says, tone oddly gentle, “what happened to you, Elsie?”

            “Seriously? What happened to—” My hand is still under his. I lift my chin, bringing our faces that much closer. “This is what happened to me, Jack: a little over six months ago, I go meet my date’s family for the first time. And maybe we aren’t really together, but you know what? It doesn’t matter. What matters is that since the very start, my date’s brother is an absolute prick. He keeps staring at me like I’m Ginger Spice crashing the royal wedding. He asks his brother questions about me because he thinks I’m inferior and unworthy. He acts unfriendly and suspicious whenever I’m around. I think we can both agree that given the opportunity, he’d want to change the shit out of me.”

            The last part comes out more aggressively than I meant, but—whatever. I’m mad now, growing exponentially madder as I watch Jack nod slowly, as though considering my words. “Well, that’s an interpretation.” Heat radiates through me from his grip. It warms my belly, licks up my spine, reminds me how close we’ve somehow gravitated.

            “It’s facts,” I hiss.

            “You’re a physicist, Elsie. You should know better than to throw around the word fact when quantum mechanics exists.”

            “What’s your interpretation, then?”

            He says nothing for a long moment, as if collecting his thoughts or deciding whether I’m worth his words. Then something shifts. The air in the room becomes thicker. His Adam’s apple bobs, his eyes fix on mine, and he starts talking.

            “A little over six months ago, I go to a family birthday expecting the usual night of misery. I’m only there for my brother, because I can count on two fingers the relatives I care about, and he’s one of them. We usually stick together, but this dinner is different. My brother brings a date. A woman he’s never spoken about—weird, since we talk nearly every day. The family, especially his mom, are thrilled.” Jack’s grip on my hand shifts. Softens. My fingers are still on his chest, half-pressed against his heart. My own has begun to thump in a hesitant, bracing way.

            “She’s beautiful, the girl. Really beautiful. There are lots of beautiful women in the world, and if you can believe it, it’s not something I usually notice, but I’m paying more attention to her than I otherwise would. Someone pulls Greg away before he has a chance to introduce me yet. But I watch her touch my grandmother’s Go board and pick up one of the stones the traditional way, index and middle finger. I watch her sneak a bite of cheese. At some point, I’m almost sure she says something that no one but me understands as a Heisenberg principle joke. And then, when my brother comes back . . . that’s when it starts for me. Because I watch her run interference between him and my family in a way I’ve never managed—and believe me, I’ve tried. I’ve spent thirty years of my life trying to protect him from their bullshit, and this girl. She just does it better. I’ve never seen him so . . . happy’s not the right word, but he seems at ease. And as the night goes on, I can’t stop looking at her, and I realize something: she’s hypervigilant. Constantly thinking two steps ahead. Anticipating others’ needs, like people are equations that need to be solved in real time. It’s subtle, but it’s there, and . . .” He shrugs, free hand coming up to scratch the back of his neck. Like he’s still puzzled. My chest is getting heavy, the air in my lungs suddenly leaden.